


the road I must travel (its end I cannot see)

by ferowyn



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: B/T/D, F/M, Family, I'm just hopelessly melodramatic, M/M, Multi, OT3, Rule 63, always a girl bilbo, fem!Bilbo, so much drama (as always)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:15:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21878005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferowyn/pseuds/ferowyn
Summary: Having lost Bilbo, Thorin knows, is payment for what he did to her, the way he treated her. Living with the pain of knowing that he is, ultimately, responsible for what must have been a terribly violent death... is his just punishment. He only wishes Dwalin didn't have to suffer through this alongside him.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 13
Kudos: 222





	the road I must travel (its end I cannot see)

**Author's Note:**

> I am super exhausted right now, but I really wanted to get this posted... so please excuse potential typos my brain is too fried to actually comprehend.
> 
> Enjoy.

### the road I must travel (its end I cannot see)

"Rider at the Gates!" the messenger wheezes the moment he bursts into the Council Hall, his panting betraying that he has run all the way from the massive Gates of Erebor to this room hidden far within the Lonely Mountain. "The Captain says," he gasps for air, resting his hands on his thighs as he bends over, "it's the Grey Wizard!"

"Tharkûn," Thorin growls even as his stomach appears to plummet at hearing that name, already rising as he signs for his Councillors to disband the meeting. He does not need to motion for Balin or Fíli to remain, however, as they will wish to know what Gandalf has to say just like he does – they, too, have wondered what happened after the Battle.

(Although Thorin's pain is infinitely greater than the two other dwarrows', no matter how agonizing finding out might have been for either of them-)

"The Captain's bringing him here," the messenger pants, and the members of Thorin's Council nod in understanding as they file out of the chamber, well aware that their King will wish to discuss whatever matter in private for now.

Balin, they have come to understand and trust, will unfailingly inform them of everything they ought to know.

"Did he disclose what prompted him to return here after all?" Thorin inquires even as he pulls one of the heavy oaken chairs from the huge round table over to a smaller one a little off to the side, unable to remain still in the face of this announcement. They have not seen nor heard of Gandalf ever since the events before the Battle, and he cannot help but hope that, maybe, maybe... the Grey Wizard might know what happened to Bilbo. How she died-

"Thorin Oakenshield!" Gandalf booms before he has even fully stepped into the chamber, Dwalin at his side, "I am in need of your assistance. _Now_."

Bristling at that demand Thorin rises from his chair, hand already halfway to the hilt of his sword upon seeing his husband's dark frown, only to be interrupted by the wizard without any regard for propriety once more,

"Bilbo is in grave danger."

Thorin's thoughts stutter to a halt as he freezes mid-motion, his eyes locked with the stormy grey ones he has known and looked to for most of his life.

Dwalin, it seems, is equally shocked-

"Bilbo's dead," he rasps, and the pain shudders through him once more at the memory of what he, _they_ , lost. What his descent into madness cost them. What he did to her- "We found... no body, but her sword, and her mail a few feet further, covered in entirely too much blood. We thought you knew," he forces past his numb lips, "and were hoping that you... might be able to tell us the details of what happened, so that we might grieve for her properly after all." His voice breaks at those last few words and from the corners of his eyes he can see Gandalf's shoulders sag, his own gaze still locked with Dwalin's.

The warrior's presence has always given him the strength and power to keep going, no matter the hopelessness of all those terrible situations they have found themselves in time and again.

"Bilbo Baggins is alive," Gandalf says deeply, and Thorin's head whips around so fast his neck hurts.

There is a weariness to the wizard's face, a sadness to the line of his shoulders he has never seen there before, and yet – he cannot help but believe the words uttered when he sees the sincerity in ancient eyes.

"However, she might not be for much longer."

"What?" Fíli gasps behind him, and in any other situation Thorin might have been amused by the terrible tactlessness of Gandalf's statement, especially since the Grey Wizard appears to believe himself so much more charming and tactful than the dwarrows themselves. "But-"

"Which is why you need to come with me, immediately," Gandalf interrupts the young prince, "if we leave now and ride hard we might still arrive in time to save her life."

Thorin hesitates for all of the blink of an eye before whipping around. "Fíli," he barks, "you will act as Regent for as long as we're gone. Balin, you and Dís stay to help him. Dwalin-"

"I'm coming with you!" the tall warrior interrupts him, and a small, personal smile twitches unto his lips despite the grim circumstances.

"I would not have dared suggest otherwise," he says, more softly than he might have, and Gandalf nods importantly.

"In fact, it is vital he accompany us – either of you might need to be present if we wish to save her."

For a few short, heavy moments silence reigns, before Balin is the one to ask the question ghosting through all their thoughts – "Save her from what, Tharkûn?"

The wizard's smile is treacherously sad, then, and his shoulders sag once more. This time, it seems, in defeat.

"That, I fear, I cannot tell. It is a secret I promised not to spill... Strictly speaking I am already breaking another promise in having come here, but I do hope she will forgive me if it does indeed save her life. If not – well, then that will be another slab of guilt for me to carry."

Thorin feels sick to his stomach at this prediction, and turns his head to look at Fíli, who has gone deathly pale. (He himself and Dwalin fare little better, he suspects.) "Go inform Óin," he instructs his sister-son, already drawing him close to gently rest his forehead against the younger one's, "as well as Dori, Bifur, Bofur and your brother. They have one hour to pack what is absolutely necessary, then we leave. Tell them to meet us at the Gates... the others will stay here with you, they cannot abandon their posts and families. You'll take care of them." It is a statement, not an order, and Fíli nods firmly.

"I will – I won't disappoint you, Uncle!"

"You couldn't," Thorin manages to smile through the fear and pain wreaking havoc on his heart, relieved at least that his heir will not protest at being separated from his brother.

He turns to look at Balin, then, who is already on his way to the door.

"I'll tell the stablemaster to prepare ponies for you," he says softly, clasping Dwalin's shoulder on his way out, "and inform the Council. You go pack as well."

Nodding in deep gratitude, but having expected nothing less from his eldest and truest friend, Thorin, too, strides over towards the door with long steps, motioning for Tharkûn to follow.

The Grey Wizard, surprisingly enough, obeys easily and walks with them, raising a bushy eyebrow.

"Is it necessary to bring so many? If there is any delay-"

"I'm the King, Gandalf," he says wearily, his fingers finding Dwalin's strong ones in the darkness of the corridor leading to the royal wing, like so many times before. Behind them, he can hear Fíli barking out orders to a number of messengers, sending them off to find those of their Companions working in the mines or guildhalls. "I cannot simply go off without taking certain measures to protect my subjects as well as myself, no matter how much I might wish to. I am responsible for too many, for too much."

"They won't allow for any delay to rest on their shoulders once Fíli has informed them," Dwalin adds lowly, painfully, "they care for her too deeply. We- ... we'll do everything we can to help her."

The wizard stares at them with dark eyes for a few agonizing, never-ending moments, before nodding. "Good," he says firmly, and the rest of the way they walk in silence.

Neither of them speaks up when he follows them into their personal chambers, sinking into a plushy armchair in the sitting room and accepting a goblet of water from a servant. Instead, they focus on packing the bare necessities as they explode into organized chaos – they have had to do this, pack up what is too important to be left behind in an instant, too often already.

"I'll take care of armour and weaponry," Dwalin says lowly and Thorin squeezes his broad fingers for one last time before finally letting go of them, turning already to pull their newly sown packs from the closet where they rest, in case of an emergency that might force them to leave on short notice with little baggage. (Even though neither of them could have been prepared for this-)

"Clothes and toiletries," he answers, grabbing various pieces of clothing for either of them and stuffing them into their packs, all suited for travel.

"Bedrolls," his husband and beloved Consort adds, reaching up to pull them off the high shelves they rest on before taking off the first pieces of his heavy Guard's armour.

They continue like this, stripping off what they are wearing and pulling on travelling gear instead, all the time listing what either is adding to both their packs. (In moments like this Thorin sometimes considers the benefits of having done this before so often that they are almost scarily efficient, only to painfully remember how much he lost, every time. He can only hope, _pray_ , that they will not lose Bilbo too. _Again_.)

Barely half an hour has passed when they purposefully stride back into the sitting room, where Gandalf has taken to snacking on some sandwiches apparently brought up in the meantime.

"Good, you're ready," is all he says when he spots them, clad in travelling gear the style of which he would remember from their journey here and packs shouldered, and rises. He reaches out to take another sandwich, motioning for the other two to follow suit, before turning to the door. "Balin, I believe, sent word to Bombur, who is packing up supplies as we speak."

Thorin simply nods, both too anxious and restless to speak at the moment, and together they make their way up to the grand Gates which have been repaired since the Battle.

"There you are," Fíli greets them with an air of weary impatience once they step outside, the reigns of a pony held in each of his capable hands. "The others were informed, Kíli's on his way and Bofur and Bifur stopped by the kitchens to help Bombur. Anything more you need?"

"Dwalin will wish to speak with Gylta," Thorin answers even as he steps forward to fasten his pack against the saddle of his pony, his husband going through the same motions a few feet over.

"Aye," he nods gruffly, eyes constantly seeking out Thorin's to share yet another worried glance.

“She has been informed,” the Golden Prince confirms, respectfully allowing King and Consort this small comfort.

Neither of them could have predicted this, let alone prepared for it-

"Thorin," Nori says, suddenly turning up as though from thin air – as always – and the King barely manages to refrain from jumping a foot high in fright, "'s there anything you need me to do while you're gone?"

Taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart (to as slow a pace as it might allow him, in the current circumstances) he nods minutely, piercing blue eyes following Dori, Kíli and Gylta as they hurry from the mountain.

"Make sure there's no dissonance amongst the Council," he lowly instructs his loyal spymaster. "They do trust Balin, Fíli, Dís and me, but leaving in the middle of a meeting in such a hurry without surrendering any details as to the nature of our departure might be asking a little too much. Still, they are mostly sensible – and if you work closely together with Balin, there should be no problems. If everything else fails involve Dáin, he’ll come within days if Fíli requests his help, and stand behind us whatever the matter. Also, if the people should panic about our absence, do spread some helpful rumours. I don't expect them to, they're flexible and open after everything that happened in the past decades, but it's important they're not too worried. Oh, and tell your brother to stand with Balin and Fíli, they'll need his help and resourcefulness." Ori has turned into a scribe of almost Balin’s calibre over the past few months, and the value of his support is greatly appreciated by every member of the royal family.

"I will," Nori confirms with a toothy grin, "don't worry, your mountain is safe with us!"

A fierce smile fighting its way onto his lips Thorin watches the sneakiest of his loyal and dearly loved Companions good-naturedly bump shoulders with his older brother as they pass each other, exchanging a few scathing words that are no doubt reassuring to either of them, before turning to face his younger sister-son.

"You're ready to go, with me?"

Kíli shares a short, meaningful glance with his brother, before nodding emphatically. "This is about Bilbo," he says firmly, almost melting into the elder prince's hug, "and since Fíli obviously can't come with you leaving, I'll have to do this for both of us."

"My beautiful boys," Thorin murmurs almost inaudibly, and they both grin with delight, a sight he has been allowed to enjoy more and more frequently since the battle – ever since he realized how close he came to losing them, too, he has grown far more open with compliments and displays of affection. (His sister, even though she would never admit it, is obviously delighted by that particular development.) "You'll both do your best, as always."

"Of course they will," Dwalin huffs next to him, his short conference with Gylta apparently finished – his second in command is more than capable, which, of course, is precisely why he made her his lieutenant in the first place. "They're your sons in all but name, after all."

Deep affection wells up in Thorin as he watches Óin and his sister arrive, Bofur and Bifur already helping Bombur distribute the food supplies, and he bumps his shoulder against the tall, burly warrior's.

"Which makes them good as your sons, too," he reminds his beloved, pulling Fíli in to rest his forehead against the blonde's once more and wrapping Dís in a short, hard embrace, before pulling away in order to mount his pony.

Dwalin snorts, following suit. "And what rascals they are... must've come from your and your sister's side of the family." His voice is husky and even rougher than usual, betraying how much the news of the danger Bilbo appears to be in have shaken him, too, no matter his façade of cool indifference.

"Oy," Kíli playfully complains, pressing a wet, smacking kiss against his brother's cheek and quickly hugging his clearly concerned mother (even though she almost succeeds at hiding her worry, from her sons at least) before mounting as well; and that is the end of the merrymaking Thorin allowed himself to indulge in despite his pain and fear, if only to grant his elder sister-son a little more peace of mind and courage in the face of this unexpected (and frankly quite terrifying) development.

"We move out!" he barks, spurring his pony to a slow trot down the pathway meandering towards Dale as soon as it is safe to do so, and further on towards the all but abandoned Esgaroth. The others follow behind him, Gandalf moving up and past them to lead their group off the path and into the rolling hills separating them from the Woodland Realm, where nature has slowly begun to reclaim its territory, now that the reign of the beast has ended. They break into a gallop once the ponies are warmed up, the wizard's horse apparently no worse for wear despite how hard he must have driven her here, and that sets the pace for the following weeks.

Gandalf urges them ever on for as long and fast as their beasts can take without suffering, through the forest – where Prince Legolas and Captain Tauriel volunteer to show them the fastest way through once they hear they must hurry if they wish to save Bilbo Baggins' life – and across the lowlands beyond (where Beorn is the one to provide them with fresh supplies, once more after hearing of their plight). They cross the Misty Mountains in barely any time at all, the goblins still scattered and unorganized after the devastating blow they were dealt during the battle two years ago, and yet it feels as though _years_ have passed when they finally come clattering into Rivendell, much like Lord Elrond and his fellow warriors did so many months before.

 _Too late_ , his heart seems to have been hammering ever since they set out, _too slow, you'll fail her yet again-_

"Mithrandir," a dark-haired elf, who appears to have awaited their arrival, exclaims the moment they slow to a stop, and Thorin recognizes him as Lindir – though he is far less composed than the King remembers the tall confident to be – "it started two days ago, she's barely holding on. Hurry!"

"Lord Elrond is with her?" the Grey Wizard demands even as he dismounts, the dwarrows already following suit. Upon the elf's harried nod, he barks out "Thorin, Dwalin, with me!", and what is there to do but comply and rush after him and Lindir?

This time it is Dwalin who reaches out, fingers trembling with fear, and they exchange a terrified glance even as they break into a run. Just _what_ is going on here?

"How bad is it?" Gandalf asks, long legs eating away the tiled floor beneath them, and Lindir's lips twitch unhappily.

"It appears to be mostly hobbit in the way we feared," he lowly admits, the two dwarrows straining to hear the melodious words, and the wizard curses lowly in a language neither of the pair understands.

Dwalin, Thorin can tell, is moments away from cracking up and snapping at them with a demand to fucking spill what _in Mahal's name is happening_ , and he himself is almost closer still, when Lindir suddenly takes a sharp turn and stops in front of a heavy door with some kind of glowing rune etched into it.

His soft brown eyes drill into the two dwarrows' with unexpected harshness and they stand rooted to the spot for a few terrible moments, before he nods sharply. "Don't raise your voice, and in Eru's name don't do anything that might agonize her even further," he instructs them lowly, almost aggressively, before carefully pushing the door open.

The moment the heavy, thick wood no longer separates them from the room behind terrible whimpers reach Thorin's ears, and his knees almost give way upon hearing this pained sound once more.

"Bilbo," he whispers, terrified, and well-neigh barges inside the moment the door is opened far enough-

His thoughts slam to a shocked, terrified halt when he spots her, half sitting half laying in what must be a sickbed; her skin clammy and deathly white, and tears trickling down her sunken cheeks. There is no mistaking the unfamiliar rise and fall of her silhouette, barely masked by the long-since soaked through tunic the elves must have clad her in.

How-

Helplessly clenching his fists he turns angry eyes on Gandalf in demand for an explanation, and the tall wizard's shoulders sage once more.

"Unlike dwarves, hobbits seldom have a hard time when it comes to having children," he explains grimly, dark eyes resting on the trembling hobbit they know he considers a dear friend, "however, their spouses must be present when they give birth. If that is not the case... neither mother nor child will survive the process."

Thorin could have sworn his heart stops at hearing that, and he feels Dwalin sway in shocked terror next to him-

"She requested repeatedly that I cut out the child so that they might live," Elrond lowly adds, raising neither his gaze nor his long fingers from her swollen abdomen. "Knowing that Mithrandir rode to bring you here, however, I nourished the hope that you would arrive in time and denied her that relief. Neither of us knew whether you would come, though, and when... she went into labour two days ago, I would not have waited much longer." He breaks off his explanation for a moment, chanting a few words in what might be Quenya instead, before finally raising his gaze to look at them. His wise eyes are wide and weary, with unmistakable fear clinging to the crinkles dancing at their edges. "Since I assume you would not have come to help her if you really did not care for her any longer, you should come over here. Take off your cloaks and boots first, though. From what she told us you will need to touch her, both of you."

Thorin has ripped the coat off his shoulders long before Elrond has finished talking, toeing off his boots on his way over to the bed the woman he loves – the woman who was meant to complete them, the woman he threatened to kill a bare few days after she finally accepted their courtship – is laying upon, Dwalin no more than half a step behind him.

He slows to a hesitant halt, however, upon reaching her, darting Elrond an insecure glance.

"What-… how?"

"A simple touch should suffice, though the more you are ready to give the better," he instructs them, long fingers once more dancing across her stomach as flowing words drop from his ever-moving lips.

Thorin hesitates for but a moment longer before reaching out a cautious hand, allowing his blunt fingertips to graze against her sunken cheek as his husband reaches for her lower arm, and Bilbo's eyes snap open as she is torn from wherever she fled to.

Both disbelief and fear are swimming in them as she stares at the dwarrows, clearly out of words, and Thorin feels his heart break all over again.

This is what they, _he_ , did to her-

"What-"

"We're here to help, Bilbo," Dwalin rumbles ever so gently, a voice even the King has not heard often in the long life they have shared already, and he can do naught but gulp painfully and pray that his husband will find the words that have suddenly, mercilessly, deserted him, "Gandalf told us that you were in danger, so we followed him here. We just didn't... we weren't told _what_ exactly was threatening your life, please do not think our surprise and shock to be anything but that- ..."

"We didn't even know you still lived," Thorin hoarsely adds, forcing the words past his numb tongue ever so unwilling to comply, and cautiously smoothes his palm against her terribly soft cheek when she makes no move to send them away.

Her eyes are still wide and terrified, and yet there is a tentative hope clinging to the sheen covering the well-loved hazel that allows a hope of its own to spark to life in the King's battered heart.

"We believed you'd perished in the battle," Dwalin continues lowly, strong fingers shyly sliding down her arm until he can wrap them around her so much smaller hand. "We mourned for you. If we'd known that you survived – we would've stopped at nothing to find you, so that we might offer up our apologies, and perhaps even beg for forgiveness."

A terrible tension seems to bleed from Bilbo's body at that, and Lord Elrond relaxes visibly as her hand faintly tightens around Dwalin's.

"I... stay?" she requests of them, her sweet voice weak and trembling, and Thorin feels his own fingers shake in response as leaden relief settles restlessly against his stomach.

"Always. Anything," he promises shakily, hesitating for no more than a moment before clambering onto the wide bed so that she might rest against him, and wrapping his broad arms around her quivering form, "whatever you need."

Bilbo stiffens before slowly, painfully, melting against his strong chest, and Dwalin moves up to grasp the slender fingers of both her small hands between his own so much bigger ones.

"We're here Bilbo, and we won't leave you alone," he promises quietly, the proclamation of tears creeping into his voice as he rests his forehead against their clasped hands. "Let's... let's do this, alright? And after, we can talk."

She nods shakily, closing her ever so beautiful eyes and taking a deep breath. When she opens them again, staring at Lord Elrond (who is smiling by now), a well-known resolve has sharpened the deep hazel into something even more beautiful than before.

"I'm ready," she says, and those words... are the harbinger of _hours_ spent in the healing halls, having to see their beloved hobbit writhe and _scream_ with pain, and being able to do naught but watch. Her grip is surprisingly strong as she claws against their arms whenever yet another contraction convulses through her, and yet that is all Thorin and Dwalin can offer her – a hand to hold onto, and the comfort of their presence. Ages seem to have passed when, finally, a piercing cry wails through the Halls of Healing, and an unfamiliar elf heads over to accept a bloodied bundle even as their hobbit goes limp.

"Bilbo!" Thorin gasps, panic suddenly clawing at his heart, and Elrond barely raises his gaze.

"Mithrandir, help me," he commands, "everyone else – out!"

Thorin would have protested, is about to, but then Lindir's strong, slender hand helps him down, off the bed, and the elf’s unyielding fingers against his shoulder are a gentle warning leading them from the room.

"There is nothing you can do for her now," he says, perhaps as soothingly as the situation allows, once the door has closed behind them and Dwalin has whipped around, ready to storm back in. "If my Lord Elrond cannot help her, no one can. But, there is someone else who needs you."

The fact that Thorin has not even realized Lindir has lead them into another chamber is testament to the fear freezing his thoughts and clouding his mind, for in front of them stands the unfamiliar elf who took away their-

Their- …

"Your daughter, King Thorin, Consort Dwalin," she smiles in a way Thorin has not ever seen an elf smile at him, in all his life, "Would you like to bathe her?"

Thorin stands frozen in shock once more, eyes unerringly searching for his husband's shaken gaze, and they stare at each other for a few long moments of fear and wonder.

"Y-you go first," Dwalin says roughly, eyes treacherously wet, "you've got more experience, helping with the lads- …"

Nodding abruptly Thorin steps forward, gratefully aware of his beloved's strong presence at his side – where he has always stood. He quickly rolls up his sleeves, before carefully, anxiously, accepting a small, wriggling creature into his arms. It is wrinkly all over and coated in blood, terribly tiny and the most beautiful sight, and in all his life he has never been so fucking _terrified_.

"Here," the elf smiles indulgently and motions at a basin already filled with water, "the temperature should be appropriate."

Brusquely nodding his thanks he steps over, carefully lowering the child in his arms into the lukewarm water – and a piercing wail begins to resound in the friendly chamber as she opens her mouth and _screams_. (And Thorin, who has helped his sister raise both Fíli and Kíli, is once more impressed by the volume such a small child might reach.)

"Doesn't seem to be one for bathing regularly," Dwalin chuckles at his shoulder, "must be the dwarrow blood. Bilbo won't be amused."

Thorin feels his heart stutter as he is reminded of her condition, distracted as he was by their daughter and her impressive set of lungs, but knows that Lindir was right: Now, there is nothing they can do for her.

"We have a daughter," he says, and it is not what he meant to say, and still conveys the loop of wonder his mind has descended into. "Just... like that."

"Well, not really," the elf speaks up cheekily, helping him wrap the tiny girl up in a soft blanket once all the blood and goo has been washed off. "Strictly speaking, there was quite a lot to it – not that either of you were here to witness it."

Dwalin flinches almost painfully upon that cruel remainder, and Thorin nods.

"We weren't," he agrees sadly, "but you must know – no force in all of Arda could have torn us from her side had we known she still lived."

The elf – she is dark-haired, and quite beautiful, he absently notes – looks at them for a few more moments before nodding slowly, the smile sneaking back onto her curved lips.

"I believe you," she says, voice as melodious as all those tree-shaggers’, and yet Thorin finds himself unable to chafe at it right now. "We spent the past months together, after she arrived here pregnant and not quite healed; and father talked her out of returning to the Shire, alone. I have grown... fond of her, I must admit, and consider her a dear friend. A sister, even. As such, in the hope it will help all of you, let me tell you: Convincing her of your sincerity will be much harder than convincing me was. She has little faith in herself left, and strongly believes that you hate her for what she did. She loves you still, and will love no others, but thinks herself unworthy of your love, after the betrayal she apparently committed. I know not the details, but I know this – she would return with you to Erebor at a moment's notice, to stand by your side as your Queen, if only you convinced her you love her for herself still, and not only her ability to give you children. Think on it," she advises them, slowly herding them back out into the corridor, and Thorin is hyperaware of the tiny bundle of life resting safely against his chest, "and return to your Companions for the night. I promise to inform you immediately should her condition change in any way; however, she will not wake up before the morrow either way. I shall go help my father and Mithrandir care for her in the meantime," she nods, before vanishing back through the door with the glowing rune, and Thorin turns to look at his husband.

"She is Elrond's daughter?"

"Apparently," he answers lowly, leaning in to rest his forehead against the King's, and for a few long, wonderful moments they stand in silence.

"Come," the elder of the two then breaks the moment, and carefully holds out his precious charge to rest against Dwalin's broad chest instead, "you should carry her." His beloved stands frozen for a few shocked moments before slowly, anxiously raising his arms to cradle their tiny daughter in their safety. He watches her lay there, transfixed, and when she blinks open her large eyes they of are the same warm hazel as Bilbo's.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, and Thorin's heart beats almost impossibly hard in his chest at the sight of his gentle giant, so very in love with their child. (Just like him-)

"Would you follow me, please?" Lindir softly interrupts their conversation, "I shall lead you back to your Companions, and have appropriate milk as well as clothing brought up to you afterwards."

For a few moments Thorin wonders about the elves' courtesy and kindness, especially in the face of what they have put Bilbo through, for it is obvious they have grown to love her, just like most creatures she encounters, but is soon distracted by the softly cooing bundle held securely in Dwalin's strong arms.

They wander after Lindir with little regard for their surroundings or the way he takes, riveted by their child drooling softly against Dwalin's travel-worn, sweaty tunic as she is gradually rocked asleep.

Stepping into the small suite that has apparently been allotted to their Company for the duration of their stay Thorin is prepared to do whatever necessary to silence his Companions the moment they see the terribly tiny new-born in order to keep them from waking her; however, that kind of precaution proves unnecessary when they are expected by five dwarrows sitting scattered across an elegant parlour, all of them watching the door in silent anticipation.

Kíli, of course, jumps to his feet the moment they step through, wide and eager eyes having zeroed in on the bundle against Dwalin's chest immediately. His voice, however, is low and awed. "Is that-"

"Our daughter," Thorin interrupts him just as lowly, his own gaze drawn back to her once more.

"And Bilbo?" Dori slowly asks, expression softening at the sight of the child.

"She... fell unconscious, once it was over," Dwalin answers painfully, hesitating for no more than a few moments before he hands their daughter over to an eager Kíli, who cradles her against his chest surprisingly skilfully. "Elrond's daughter promised to keep us updated if her... conditions changes in any way."

"She'll be alright," Dori says, unexpected conviction colouring his voice. "She's stronger than anyone I've ever met, including the two of you."

"She is," Bofur agrees easily, though the worry creasing his forehead is unmistakable, and Bifur grunts a wordless affirmation.

"I agree with them," Óin says slowly, "but I could ask whether they might accept my help, if that'd make you feel better."

"It would," Thorin admits quietly, his husband nodding his silent consent, and their cousin abandons his comfortable dwarrow-sized armchair next to the fireplace, clasping the King's shoulder in a gesture of quiet support before heading outside, the satchel they know to carry his medical equipment slung across his shoulder.

They stand in silence for some time, then, all eyes on the tiny child now laying against Kíli's shoulder, before Dori speaks up once more.

"There's washing facilities through here," he announces lowly, pointing towards one of the many doors leading away from the parlour. "Go wash off the journey, we'll take care of her in the meantime – and we'll come and fetch you in case anything happens."

Nodding his assent Thorin reaches for Dwalin's arm, pulling the tall warrior along and towards the indicated door.

"Come on," he murmurs against the half-torn ear as he wrestles his barely-cooperative husband through and into the slender corridor beyond, "if we can't trust them to take care of her we can't trust anyone!"

"'Tis not that I don't trust them," Dwalin disagrees lowly, "I just- …"

"...don't want to leave her side? Aye, me neither," Thorin admits easily, stepping through another door that reveals a generous room with a wide basin filled with clear water embedded in the floor. Already unlacing his tunic he realizes that his coat and boots must still be in the sickroom, all but forgotten. Not that it matters much to him in these circumstances, there are more pressing matters right now. "However, there's little we can do at the moment, and we've ridden hard for _weeks_. We should definitely get ourselves cleaned up – if only to make sure we don't upset our hosts any more than necessary."

"You've never cared shit for elven sensibilities," Dwalin remarks, raising an eyebrow, even as he works off his breeches and thick socks. 

Thorin frowns in irritation, kicking off the last pieces of clothing and unfastening the beads holding his braids.

"I still don't," he grouses, unravelling the strands with less care than perhaps appropriate, "but they've taken care of Bilbo – Elrond's hope that we might not be complete and utter arses after all and come to help her is the only reason she's still _alive_. And no other elf would've waited for dwarrows... The trust he placed in us, despite our behaviour the last time we rested here... no, I can't ignore all that, not with Bilbo still in their care, no matter how little I might think of elves in general. Perhaps... perhaps, I'll just have to admit that there are some who are different, some who care for more than floating by haughtily and making sure we know exactly just how superior they believe themselves to be." Still frowning darkly he lowers himself into the filled basin, the water in which turns out to be blissfully warm, and reaches for a bar of soap resting on a shallow silvery plate.

Dwalin huffs moodily and jumps in after him with a little more bounce than strictly necessary, dousing his husband with water the scent of which tastes almost sweet on his tongue. "I might hate to admit it, but you're right."

Barking out a laugh Thorin moves quickly, surprising his tall warrior with a meaty arm wrapping around his thick neck.

Dwalin, of course, reacts with a true warrior's reflexes and retaliation comes with lightning speed, pulling the elder one's feet out beneath him with a single skilful move and pushing the King down under the surface.

Thorin comes up spluttering and gasping for air, and punches his Consort in the arm with a grin tugging at his lips. Dwalin's eyes are dark and wild the way only battle usually colours them, and Thorin, as always, falls even a little farther in love with this dwarrow who has shared every single trial of his life and stood by his side against all those countless odds at this sight. Had anyone told him in those few years before he met Dwalin that he would ever love anyone as deeply and unconditionally – in no world would he have believed them. And now... now the tall, burly warrior has spent years, _decades_ , ever-faithful within arm's reach (and if beyond, then not for long), is sharing his bath and breath, and yet- ... he has never been more _terrified_ in all his life.

Finding Bilbo's blood-splattered mithril mail after the Battle – for it was him who stumbled upon it in their desperate search for their Burglar, half-dead himself and barely able to even walk, but stubborn as ever, and it felt like Mahal's divine punishment that _he_ would be the one to discover what they thought to be proof of her loss – was an as of yet unknown terror, worse even than losing Erebor and half his family to the thrice-cursed dragon.

Oh, it was bad, almost sending him right into the Halls of his Forefathers in his guilt and pain, if not for Dwalin's constant presence at his bedside, no matter how hurt and heart-broken the tall warrior himself might have been. (And his husband's forgiveness, though a single gift among many, had been the greatest and most valued one ever given.)

He, _they_ , accepted it – her loss – though, in the time that passed. They grieved for her as best they could, without knowing what had really happened, and, over the weeks and months, as their people returned and Erebor was rebuilt to her old glory, they slowly found their lives worth living once more . In a way, they lived _for_ her – and Thorin reminded himself every day that he had to do _better_ , and ever so desperately tried to offer his people what he would never get to offer Bilbo-

He worked harder than ever, so that – one day – he might even be worthy of her forgiveness.

Knowing now that she is alive, but fighting for her life a few rooms over, knowing that they might lose her yet _again_ -

...

Is terrifying in a way none of the countless hardships they had to brave ever was.

And then, of course, there is the matter of their still un-named daughter, upon whom they might have forced the tragedy of having to grow up without her mother-

"Mahal, stop thinking," Dwalin grouses, pulling him into a hard, grounding embrace. "Naught we can do now, except be there for the little one and pray."

Exhaling slowly Thorin forces himself to pull his thoughts out of the downward spiral they were descending into, and rests his head against the strong shoulder touching his own.

"You're right," he murmurs, "I just... I- ..."

"Me too," Dwalin whispers, "I know. But..."

"Yes," Thorin agrees to words unspoken but unnecessary after so many decades spent loving each other, and draws on every ounce of self-control he ever had to learn during his many (hard) years as an exiled King. "I... I can do it."

"Of course you can," the taller one grumbles good-naturedly, "now come on, finish up, or you'll be smelling like that disgusting water and then I won't touch you for weeks. Besides, I want to get my daughter back, before Kíli decides to keep her and we have to fight him to make him part with her."

Snorting out a low laugh the King rests his head against his husband's strong shoulder for another moment, before drawing away and reaching for the soap once again.

"Still gotta wash my hair," he announces, "since, unlike you, I – you know – actually got some left."

"Oy!" Dwalin complains, and assists (or so he claims) his husband with rinsing his hair again. They keep tussling playfully for the remainder of their time spent in the bath, either long since aware that their half-gentle half-wild mock scuffles are their best strategy to keep their minds off the blood-curling terror and their acts together for the time being.

They return to the parlour assigned to them once they have put on fresh clothing, and find their daughter sleeping peacefully against a contently humming and rocking Dori's shoulder. Kíli softly adds the words to the ancient lullaby, his singing completing the calming melody.

"There ye are," Bofur says lightly, whittling away at a piece of wood (and, wonders never cease, there is an old piece of cloth laid out underneath, to catch the chippings), "the wee one got a little unhappy while ye were gone, but Dori fed her that milk-brew-thingy them tree-shaggers brought up and she's been sleepin' like a rock ever since."

"Good," Thorin nods and sinks into the ridiculously comfortable cushions of the sole settee in the room, pulling Dwalin down beside him. He is quite content to allow Dori to keep the child for now – the elderly dwarrow is as much family as Kíli or Balin are, after everything they went through together.

"Have you thought of a name already?" His sister-son asks once the lullaby has ended, sinking down to lean against his uncle's legs in his brother's absence and tilting his head back to look at Thorin upside-down.

The King raises his gaze to share an uneasy look with his husband, before shrugging one-shoulderedly.

"Kind of feels wrong, making any decisions in her absence," he says slowly, drawing one hand out to gently run through the young dwarrow’s dark hair, and Dori nods.

"Of course it does," he agrees softly, careful not to wake the small child sleeping against his shoulder, "but I'm sure you've thought of something none the less."

"I have," Dwalin admits freely, finally relaxing against the cushions and throwing his strong arm up around the King's shoulders. "But... it's not quite that easy."

"I wouldn't have thought so," Dori smiles. "After all, unlike most fathers, you didn't have almost two years to consider the matter, and get used to the thought of having a child."

"No... no, that we didn't," Thorin agrees faintly, painfully. "If only we'd known- …"

"You'd have been with her," Kíli continues quietly, " _we_ 'd have been with her!"

"We wouldn't have left her out of our sight," Dwalin contributes, fingers tightening a little too much around Thorin's shoulder, "we would've treated and treasured her the way we should've-..."

"And it's my fault we couldn't," the King summarizes bitterly, his own fists clenching against Kíli’s hair until his knuckles are white. "I'll never forgive myself for thusly having let her down, now even more so – she would've _needed_ us, but due to my actions she didn't feel like she could ask for the help she required!"

"But you might still have the chance to make up for it," Dori reminds the desperate dwarrow, humming soothingly when the small child threatens to wake up. "She is yet-"

He falls silent as the door is opened, and Thorin feels his heart stutter and stumble the moment he spots Óin and Elrond's daughter, stepping inside.

"She's alright for now," his cousin declares once the elf has closed the door behind them, a rare gentle smile on his lips as his eyes find the child. "She's not _well_ , and she won't be for quite some time yet, but she'll live."

"My father did what he could," the woman adds, elegantly sinking down into one of the chairs much too small for her even as the breath rushes from Thorin’s lungs in desperate relief. "He'll stay with her for the night, too, in case any emergency should arise... neither of us expects that, though. She might be unconscious for a few days yet, but I believe you will be able to talk to her before the week is out."

Thorin feels the tension of the last few hours, days, _months_ worth of terror bleed away at that prediction, and melts against his husband in boneless relief.

"Thank Mahal!-"

"And praise Yavanna, for her mercy," Dwalin adds hoarsely, evidently just as affected. "Can we... can we see her soon, even if she might not be conscious?"

"I'll see what I can arrange," the elf promises and Thorin finds himself humbled by her open helpfulness, when she might as well punish them for what they did to one she considers a sister. "I shall take my leave, now, so that you might rest – do ask for help if there is anything you need, all elves in this part of my father's palace have been instructed to aid you. And if any problem arises, especially with your daughter, call for me or my father. My name is Arwen, and I do believe you know his," she smiles cheekily, rising again. Breezing over to where Dori is walking up and down one length of the room she ghosts pale, gentle fingers against the child's soft features, before nodding once more in farewell and leaving the parlour and its occupants behind.

Thorin... might have been ashamed, really, if the circumstances had been any different, or the elf still present. As it is, however, he makes no move to brush away the single tear rolling down his cheek, melting bonelessly into Dwalin's ever-strong embrace.

"She'll live," he whispers, the relief cursing through him too strong to be contained, "We might yet make amends and earn her forgiveness..."

"We will," his husband promises lowly, deep voice hoarse with similar emotions. "We'll do anything, until we've made this right again!"

Sleep comes surprisingly easy that night, with Thorin wrapped up in Dwalin's powerful embrace and their child drooling softly in the delicate cradle one of the elves apparently brought up into the room meant for them. Were their daughter fully dwarrow, they would have balked at the flowery ornaments and dainty style, but she is also a hobbit's child, and as such the King cannot help but think that it fits her.

The cradle is terribly fragile either way, much like their daughter and Bilbo herself.

Breakfast is spent in good humour, with Dwalin tiredly leaning against Thorin's shoulder, eyelids drooping. He was the one roused by their little one's hunger twice during the night, while the older one slept like a rock. (He knows only too well that if there is danger about he cannot sleep in his husband's embrace, for in the face of that safety he will be too far gone to be woken by even a war horn.)

Arwen, once she has finished eating, walks over to them, motions as flowing as ever, and Thorin finds himself less annoyed than he might have been under different circumstances.

"I talked to my father," she begins, "and he believes it should be alright for you to visit her, as long as you stay for only a short period of time, until she wakes. In fact, I would suggest I take you there now. Then father can take a look at your daughter as well, and make sure she is healthy."

Exchanging a short, meaningful glance with his husband Thorin nods before rising, gently lifting the gurgling child out of Kíli's arms, who decided to hog her for the duration of breakfast.

With long steps and holding her carefully, Dwalin ever at his side, they follow the elf down several corridors until they reach one he remembers only too well, the walls and door leading to Bilbo's sickroom etched into his mind still coloured with the boundless terror of the evening before.

Arwen softly knocks against the wood, the rune etched into which is still glowing gently, and opens it after a few moments of hesitation.

Stepping inside, Thorin feels his heart stumble painfully once more as his eyes find Bilbo's pale, motionless form laid out across fresh linen. She is breathing, however, her chest rising and falling softly, and that grants him enough peace of mind to finally tear away his gaze, and face Elrond instead.

"She should be alright," the elf offers up words of comfort, "physically at least. I'll keep her here until I know for sure, but I don't expect any further complications concerning her health to arise."

“Thank Mahal,” Thorin repeats the previous night’s sentiment, stepping closer and reaching out a careful hand after a quiet, hesitant request for permission.

As Elrond nods in answer to the unasked question he slowly wraps his fingers around Bilbo’s so much smaller, fragile ones, laying pale against the white linen, their child resting securely in his other arm.

“Come,” Arwen says behind him, a soft smile dancing on her lips, “I’ll take her for now, so that father may examine her.”

Allowing her to lift the gently drooling bundle from his arms without pause (for he well knows that, without her and her father, Bilbo would most certainly not be alive now, nor have any prospect of staying it) he leans against the sturdy bed the hobbit is still laying on and draws a careful circle across the back of her hand with his thick thumb.

“I can’t even begin to tell you how glad I am that you’ll be alright,” he murmurs, not harbouring any delusions that the elves might not pick up the low words, but still allowing himself this illusion of privacy. “I don’t… I don’t even fear your condemnation anymore, for nothing could be worse than the fear of losing you – _again_.”

“You’ll have to take better care of yourself from now on,” Dwalin adds just as lowly, reaching for her other hand. “We’ll snap and go crazy the moment we believe any ill might befall you. Thorin would root up half of Erebor if necessary, and I’d take the other half.”

“Even Balin would have a hard time stopping us,” Thorin chuckles quietly, bitterly. He leans over to breathe a kiss against her forehead before slowly, reluctantly, letting go of her hand.

“And the boys wouldn’t be of any help at all, wreaking havoc with us,” his husband murmurs as he copies his motions.

“Do get better soon,” the King whispers, almost too low for even Dwalin to pick up, before finally turning away and expectantly turning to face Lord Elrond. “Is she… is she alright?”

“Both of them are, or will be,” the elf answers the, admittedly, not particularly exact question, reaching out to trail a finger of his own down the little girl’s cheek before leading them out of the sickroom. As he steps outside Thorin chances a look behind him, eyes lingering on Bilbo’s sleeping form for a moment or two, before turning back around. (If Dwalin copies his motions next to him, well, then neither they nor the two elves remaining in the sickroom comment on it.)

“I… would like to make a request,” Elrond then adds, carefully, and it is only the many years of politics that allow Thorin to see the guarded caution in his eyes as they walk down the long corridor. “As my daughter told you, I believe, we have come to regard Bilbo as family. As soon as you have talked to her, unless you succeed at royally, uh, let’s say screwing things up, and both her and the little one are fit for travel, I expect that she will return to Erebor with you. As we deeply care for both Bilbo and your daughter, however, we would suggest an arrangement, of some sort: A treaty, perhaps, that regularly leads us across the Misty Mountains, under the cover of amending any items that need adjusting. Seeing her and the little one would only be a boon of course.” He smiles serenely at them, but there is no mistaking the almost cheeky edge to the pale line of his lips.

Raising a surprised eyebrow Thorin turns to exchange a look with his Consort, a single glance enough to tell him Dwalin is equally – positively – surprised, and thinking along similar (unanticipated) lines. Flashing a quick sign in Iglishmek, just to be sure, he straightens his shoulders upon his husband’s barely perceivable nod.

The elf’s readiness to adhere to their wishes in this matter as well as to hide the true purpose of the proposed visits does, indeed, count quite heavily in Thorin’s mind, though it is his help and care of Bilbo that convinces him to take their relations down this as of yet untrodden path.

“A trade agreement would be a good cover to hide the kind of liaison we would propose,” he thusly agrees, his words as heavy and measured as the issue at hand demands.

Elrond’s eyebrows, which do seem to have something of a life of their own, rise to almost ridiculous heights at that.

“Don’t worry, it’s not prohibited – per se,” Dwalin barks out in amusement upon seeing the incredulity slowly etching into the elven Lord’s features as he leads them into what they remember to be his personal scriptorium.

“Indeed,” Thorin affirms, the corners of his lips twitching a little as well. Having broken Elrond’s famous countenance, often tried and forged in the fires of politics, is a little victory, at least, in the face of what they are about to do. “As you perhaps know, our people have many, and very detailed, rules about what parts of our culture we are allowed to share with an outsider, and the indicated punishments tend to be ruthless, detailed, and terribly creative. As such, I expect you are aware of what it means to offer you such: We would like the two of you to participate in our daughter’s ikhrêm ishmerafrân, and for you, Lord Elrond, to act as her ukhram.”

At least they do have the joy of watching the colour drain from the stoic elf’s face for a few wonderful moments, and Thorin, petty though it may be, finds that sight to be a huge consolation indeed.

After all, he just did the unthinkable – _millennia_ have passed since any none-dwarrow has taken part in such a ceremony, and he went and invited an _elf_ to join the princess of Erebor’s. He has, however, spent the past two years thinking that he would have done anything for Bilbo, were she still alive, and allowing those she obviously has accepted as family to stay in her life is only a small step in the expanse of that silent vow.

He will not disappoint her again.

“We are honoured, and graciously accept,” the Lord of Rivendell murmurs, a little hoarsely and still wide-eyed. “I know enough Khuzdul to guess what honour you have just bestowed upon us, and we shall treat it as such.”

Nodding in appreciation – Elrond might not be aware of the exact magnitude of this offer, but he does understand that it is part of the dwarrows jealously guarded secrets and traditions – Thorin steps over to lift his daughter back into his own arms. “Few outside of a child’s immediate blood-family are ever chosen to act as ukhram,” he casually informs their elven host and his daughter, who has followed them to the scriptorium, their once more forgotten boots and cloaks in hand. “Since I trust that you will keep quiet about this, and not allow either of our people to find out, you might as well consider this our… official acceptance of you as her family,” he adds, finding himself surprised at the ease with which these words pass his lips. Perhaps… the past two years, without Bilbo at his side, really have changed him and his attitudes. Certainly his priorities…

“We’ll send Kíli and Dori to negotiate the contracts which will act as cover for the regular visits,” Dwalin announces as they make their way over to the door, even though no official dismissal was given. After all, they are now _family_. Mahal give him strength- “My husband’s sister-son would profit greatly from the practice, and Dori, as a Guild Head, has a better understanding of Erebor’s current trade agreements than we do.”

“Alright,” Elrond agrees almost too easily, and the smile dancing on his lips is obvious to both of them where they would have seen naught but a cool mask many moons ago, “If you wish for your sister-son to learn then we shall treat the encounter as a sincere exercise.”

“We would appreciate that,” Thorin nods, “perhaps giving Kíli such an important task will lessen my sister’s ire – she _will_ try to kill me when she finds out that we held the little one’s ikhrêm ishmerafrân without her.” He opens the artfully carved door, his husband’ unyielding strength at his side as the warrior bends down to pick up their deserted clothing.

“Wouldn’t be anything new, would it,” the burly warrior drily remarks on his parting statement as they retrace their steps back to the dining room, and from there to the suite they have claimed as theirs for the duration of their stay. Now that the immediate terror of possibly losing Bilbo has passed, the stone paving the walkways and making up the delicate columns and railings is more than expressive enough to guide them back. “After all, she tries doing so on a regular basis.”

“True,” Thorin shrugs one-shoulderedly with a crooked grin, before handing the – miraculously still sleeping – girl over to his husband, who reaches out to cradle her against his broad chest with the utmost care, and taking the boots and cloaks in exchange.

She appears to be even tinier in his arms, and the King can barely take his eyes off the two of them.

When they re-join the others he is entirely prepared to defend their choice of inviting Lord Elrond and his daughter to their child’s ikhrêm ishmerafrân with a duel, if need be, only to be the one left standing in shocked surprise when all Óin does is shrug.

“We figured you might do that, to show Bilbo that you’ll do anything for her – even accept elves as her family,” Dori explains, unruffled. “And it’s a good move, too. It might take a little until she fully understands just how many traditions you discarded for her sake, but we’ll make sure she does comprehend your reasons – that you love her enough to take even so big a step. And once she does understand, she’ll more than appreciate it.”

“True, she’s always been considerate of our ways and traditions,” Kíli adds with a gentle smile, so very fond of her himself, and Thorin finds himself nodding.

“We’ll need your help,” he casually informs his sister-son, “in selling this to your mother.”

The dark-haired prince simply raises an incredulous eyebrow. “She’ll buy it the moment you explain your true reasons,” he flatly comments. “How could she not, when you’re doing this for Bilbo?” _Bilbo_ – oh, how they all love her, even his sister who has never met the hobbit. It warms Thorin’s heart, and not for the first time.

“The lad’s right,” Óin helpfully adds, “usually, the problem isn’t that Dís doesn’t understand – it’s that _you_ don’t explain properly!”

“Oy!” Dwalin complains, only to receive an elbow to the ribs by his cousin, carefully avoiding the child.

“Be grateful that you’re carrying the little one right now, or I would’ve done worse,” the elderly healer grouches, before returning to his comfortable armchair and the blade he is currently cleaning.

“He’s right, too,” Kíli grins, unrepentant and unfazed by the fact that even “worse” would have barely rattled Dwalin, and Thorin frowns playfully.

“Like you’re one to talk when it comes to proper explanations,” he snarks right back, “you’ve-”

A loud, piercing wail resounds in the chamber, and Bofur drops his head against the closest wall.

“Now ye’ve gone an’ woken her!” he accuses them cheerily, “that’s what ye get for arguin’ so loudly.”

The day passes quickly between their usual bickering, caring for the small child – which turns out to be surprisingly time-consuming, and Thorin cannot help but wonder how he will manage being King between his daughter, his sister and her sons, and Dwalin and Bilbo – and discussing the details of his daughter’s ikhrêm ishmerafrân with the elves. The following days melt away in much the same way, also heralding Gandalf’s sudden departure from Rivendell, and half a week has passed already when, late in the evening, Lindir arrives at their door, notably out of breath.

Thorin jumps to his feet immediately, his heart plummeting at the thought of all the terrible things that might have happened to his beloved hobbit, when the dark-haired elf opens his mouth to explain and excitement tumbles from his lips:

“She woke up! Lord Elrond and Lady Arwen are talking to her as we speak; however, they sent me for you and your daughter, King Thorin, Consort Dwalin, as they expect she will wish to see all three of you at the first opportunity.”

“We’re coming,” Thorin forces past his lips even as all air seems to have fled from his lungs due to both relief and fear, and Dwalin plucks the happily gurgling child from a pouting Kíli’s embrace.

They follow the elf in terrified silence, knowing the way well enough by now but Thorin, at least, suddenly finds himself hesitant to face her, no matter how impatient he might be to see her alive and awake. The small respite walking at Lindir’s brisk pace instead of running offers is suddenly, unexpectedly, welcome, and when he darts a look at his husband he sees similar trepidation in Dwalin’s eyes.

After everything that happened – Bilbo would be more than justified to simply take her child and send them away.

Abruptly reaching out he once more closes his fingers around those of his tall warrior’s free hand, not caring any longer what any passing elves might think.

(The gentle squeeze he receives in turn tells him that was the right decision-)

“-see her?”

“She is being brought here as we speak,” Elrond gently answers the hobbit’s question, even though that would not have been necessary – for Bilbo turns her head to face the door the moment it opens, tired eyes immediately finding the two dwarrows and her softly drooling daughter.

“T-Thorin,” she stutters out, followed by an equally hesitant “…Dwalin?”, and the King feels his heart break once more upon seeing the uncertainty in the beloved hazel.

“Bilbo,” he answers quietly, stepping closer but not close enough to touch her, and Dwalin easily moves past him, stooping low and, ever so carefully, laying the happily gurgling child into her arms.

Bilbo, wide-eyed and beautiful, carefully wraps her own arms around the wriggling creature, examining their child with a certain sense of wonder in her eyes – wonder that is still there when she raises her gaze to watch them, instead.

“You came.”

“That we did,” Dwalin agrees lowly, and Thorin is more grateful than ever that his husband, at least, is not as hopeless at decent conversations as he is. “As soon as we heard that you still lived- …”

His voice, however, fails the tall warrior even when his words do not, and the King finds himself staring at her, floundering, desperate for something to say.

“We- … we thought you were dead,” is what he comes up with, that cruel truth still ever-present in his mind, and even though he knows that they already told her that (when she was in terrible pain, granted, but all dwarrows of their Company have long since been taught what an incredible being she is) it is all he can think to say if he wishes to explain why they were not here _sooner_ , “I found your sword, and mail, and there was so much blood, and you were _gone_ -”

“B-because Gandalf t-took me away, I a-asked him to,” Bilbo hiccups, her beautiful hazel eyes not leaving them for even a moment, “I was- … I was hurt, and b-banished-”

“We rescinded the banishmen, as soon as we were victorious, when we still held out hope that we might find you alive- …”

“But we didn’t find you,” Dwalin adds hoarsely when Thorin is the one unable to go on, “only the bloodied mithril mail, and that certainly seemed like more than enough proof- …we grieved for you, too. If only we’d known- … we wouldn’t have let you go through this alone!”

“I- … I’m s-sorry I left,” the hobbit gulps audibly, tears gathering in those beautiful eyes, and Thorin surges forward to gently wrap her so much smaller hand in his own. (He never could stand seeing her cry-)

“We forced you to,” he painfully admits, so terribly aware of that hurtful truth, “you shouldn’t be the one apologizing! We- … we _failed_ you Bilbo, _I_ failed you, on so many levels, and there is nothing I can ever do to make up for what we, _I_ , did. All I can do…” He gasps for air, then, unsure whether he is strong enough to say even another word, but soldiers on when a single tear makes it past her self-control and pearls down her pale cheek- “All I can do is beg for your forgiveness still, no matter how little I might deserve it, and ask whether… whether you might allow us back into your life, your _heart_. There is little I can offer in return, but a lifetime of atonement and-”

“A lifetime,” Bilbo says quietly, her voice throaty but stronger than ever, and the tiny smile slowly sneaking onto her lips is beautiful, “is all I’d ever ask for: A lifetime at your sides.”

And, oh, the littlest of their Company is once more the most courageous of them all!

“If I had more than one to offer, they’d all be yours,” Thorin hears himself answer, not even fully aware of the frilly cheesiness tumbling from his tongue, half numb with relief. And he could not care less when the smile fully leaps onto Bilbo’s lips, dazzling and wide and _true_ , and Dwalin snorts gently.

“You old softy,” he accuses, even as he reaches out to smoothe his large palm against the hobbit’s cheek, carefully wiping away the tear.

Ignoring him for once, the King draws his own thumb across her palm, gazing upon her hopefully. “Does that… does that mean that you’ll be coming home with us?”

More tears spill, then, and for a few short, never-ending moments he is terrified, before that beaming smile shines through the salty torrents once more.

“Home,” she says, “yes, I’d like that. Even though… it doesn’t really matter where we go, as long as you’re there.”

“Wherever you go, we’ll follow,” Thorin promises immediately, without hesitation, and her lips twitch with sudden cheek.

“Aren’t you supposed to return to Erebor to, you know – be King?”

“Fíli’ll be a good King,” he shoots back, and Dwalin snorts once more.

“Aye, and probably a better one than you!”

Their hobbit breaks into giggles, then, before carefully pulling her hand from Thorin’s gentle grip and reaching out, trembling fingers hesitating over her daughter’s wispy head.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Of course,” Dwalin rumbles, reaching out as well and laying his great paw against the babe’s back. “She’s your daughter after all.”

Bilbo hiccups at that, caught half-way between happy and incredulous, and Thorin breathes a careful, uncertain kiss against her forehead.

“Dwalin’s right,” he agrees, reclaiming her fragile hand to hold onto once more, “how could she be anything but tiny and beautiful?”

Bilbo snorts out a shaky, disbelieving laugh at that, “Tiny? She’s _huge_ – and I would know!”

Both dwarrows freeze at that, worry bubbling up low and terrifying in Thorin’s throat, and the hobbit deflates before escaping his hold once more and smoothing a comforting hand down Dwalin’s rough cheek.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she murmurs, her hazel eyes so very sad and insecure, and the King sighs even as his heart breaks.

“Oh Bilbo – after everything we put you through these past few months, any mention of your pain will pain us in turn. But please, never allow that to keep you from treating us the way you desire… after all, we are in desperate need of your level head and sharp tongue to keep us focused and anchored.” It is as much an attempt to lighten the mood and assure her as the truth.

Bilbo’s lips twitch once more, the terrible tension bleeding from her eyes and shoulders. “And from starting any wars with the elves,” she adds drily, even though her fingers are still shaking, and Thorin’s heart stumbles at the careful cheek in her gaze even as he reaches for her hand once more. Good. He never wants her to fear him again, _ever_ -

“Both King and Consort proved to be quite diplomatic when your life was at stake,” Elrond, who kept to the edges of their perception, suddenly intrudes on the conversation, cheeky amusement once more playing around his pale lips. “In fact, I would even go so far as to call their attitude towards Arwen and me amicable.”

Bilbo raises a disbelieving eyebrow at that, before shyly clasping Thorin’s hand, returning his gentle grasp. No, regaining her full trust will not be that easy, but… no fear. _No fear_. “Truly?” she asks, as if unable to believe the elf’s words, and he finds himself smiling quite without his consent.

“Truly,” he confirms, his voice treacherously soft even to his own ears. “Anything – anything for you, Bilbo.” There is nothing, _nothing_ he would not do-

“A-anything?”

Suddenly, she looks terrified at this prospect.

No, _no_ , what-

Dwalin falls to his knees next to her sickbed, carefully pulling her small fingers from Thorin’s frozen ones. Frozen, in sudden fear that he has succeeded at driving her away once more- 

“Anything,” the warrior rumbles his affirmation. “You’re our One, Bilbo.” They told her that, before – _before-_ – but, clearly, she is not aware of the magnitude of that statement, that concept. Neither, then, can she be aware of the magnitude of their, his, betrayal- “We were made to be One, the three of us, to share our lives and hearts and families.” Dwalin explains this to her carefully, patiently; laying plain what truths every dwarfling is taught even before taking their first steps. His eyes are dark and so very sincere, and Thorin can but pray that, this time, Bilbo understands what he is trying to say. “That we ever let you go – sent you away, even… is a deed unfathomable to our people, and might only be explained by the terrifying spell the dragon’s sickness held us under. And yet, while that might be an explanation, it cannot be an excuse for what wrongs you had to suffer after you accepted us into your life. We allowed harm to befall you, we forced you from our sides, and, most reprehensibly, we were the ones to inflict the greatest pain onto you. It was despicable… and for a long time we believed your loss to be Mahal’s ultimate punishment for our betrayal. For so carelessly throwing away the priceless gift he made for us… And we _deserved_ it, Bilbo, do you understand?” His voice is so urgent, his gaze so sad, and Thorin’s heart breaks once more, knowing that it was, ultimately, his mistake. His fault. His punishment – which his husband was forced to share at his side, like every other pain he shared through their long lives. (And, once more, he feels humbled in the face of Dwalin’s forgiveness. His _love_.)

Bilbo’s beautiful hazel eyes are glassy, and her fingers are trembling in the strong warrior’s grasp. And yet, there is disbelief in the line of her brows, and hope in the gentle curve of her lips. Hope, that allows Thorin to hope in turn – that she might actually understand what she is to them. What it means, holding her in their arms once more.

“Seeing you alive,” Dwalin continues hoarsely, and his fingers are trembling in time with their hobbit’s, “the mother of our daughter, and ready to rejoin our lives – you need to believe me, there is nothing we would not do in an attempt to be worthy of your forgiveness. There are no words, to truly describe what you mean to us.”

For a few moments they sit frozen in heavy silence, then a single tear breaks from her eyes, and its brothers soon follow. Soon, torrents are wetting Bilbo’s cheeks, and yet it is the most beautiful sight Thorin has ever set eyes upon, for there a smile, fragile but unstoppable, slowly breaks free. It might as well have lit the entire chamber.

“We’ll wed you, the very moment you’ll have us,” he lowly adds to his husbands elaborate explanation, the one to have been trained in rhetorics and diplomacy and yet so much less articulate than his warrior when it comes to words of love.

Bilbo turns her teary, gentle gaze of hazel upon him, then, holding their daughter close. “You- … you would?”

“At a moment’s notice,” Dwalin affirms, gently squeezing her fingers, and when she nods shakily the smile on his lips is heartbreakingly beautiful.

“I… I- _yes_ ,” she breathes, gulping heavily, “yes. I- … there’s nothing I want more than to- to come home with you, and be wed to you, and… and have a family again. _Be_ family.”

“Home,” Thorin repeats, huskily, and bends down to press a gentle kiss against her forehead. “ _Home_.” And if a tear or two make their way down his own cheek, well, then neither Dwalin nor Elrond remark upon it.

The elf coaxes them away, then, his cool hand on her brow bestowing upon their future Queen the calm to sleep again, to rest, to heal.

Their future Queen.

Thorin gulps heavily, his arms once more securely wrapped around their little bundle of life, and raises guarded eyes to meet the Lord of Rivendell’s. “Would it be possible to make use of your forges?”

Upon the elf’s consent the following hours are spent in sweat and heat and creation, their daughter safe in Dori’s embrace and Arwen’s presence. Thorin need not contemplate the designs nor draw the patterns, he does not even stop to consider what steps he ought to take – no, he has spent many cold nights awake in dreams, of what he would have done, and now there is no doubt in his mind. There is no _would_ , either. But a few weeks ago, everything was lost, yet here he is: Ready to reclaim a dream he believed long-since gone up in blood and smoke.

Dwalin, too, does not stop to ponder, and under their skilled hands a pair of beads takes shape and form.

They may never have discussed the patterns, in those long nights they dreamed of what could have been, but they have shared each other’s hearts and lives; and while more than a century might have passed since their own betrothal beads were exchanged the memories are clear enough, and both beads a beloved keepsake ever since they were replaced by marriage beads.

Oh, Bilbo’s will be the most beautiful marriage beads to have been forged by any dwarf in this century or the next, with Erebor’s resources at their disposal, but for now – they will have to make do with what resources Rivendell’s forges offer, and for her betrothal beads, it will be enough.

Hours have passed when they finally tumble into the elven baths once more, sweaty and sooty and exhausted, and it is only late in the night, once they are alone in their room with their daughter and the darkness, that Thorin carefully holds out his newest creation. In turn he inspects Dwalin’s with keen eyes, his sight barely constrained by the lack of light, and if his lips crash onto his husband’s rather forcefully, if words are not enough to express the love choking him upon seeing the similarities – well, then the stars are their only witnesses.

They rise in the morning with either bead stored away securely, and hope the kind of which they believed lost in both their hearts, obvious in Thorin’s gentle touches and the smoothness of Dwalin’s forehead.

“The two of you are disgustingly cheesy, at times,” Óin greets them when they step out into the parlour, arms held out in impatient invitation.

Dwalin snorts derisively, but hands their daughter over without hesitation.

Dori, in the meantime, is smiling. “I take it she’s coming home with us then?”

“As of yet, we have not discussed the details,” Thorin confirms with a sudden smile leaping onto his own lips at the remainder and his fingers find the reassuring coolness of the round shape in the hidden pouch against his hips quite of their own accord. (A few inches to the side, Dwalin’s motions are suspiciously similar, and the smile on his lips digs just that bit deeper.)

“Yes!” Kíli hisses, and punches a fist into the air. “Can we- … can we talk to her?”

Bifur barks out wordless excitement at the prospect, and Thorin sighs fondly.

“I’m sure that can be arranged in the coming days. We will be stranded here until both her and the little one are well enough to travel either way, I’m afraid, so there’ll be enough time to just… sit with her.”

“Convince her that we love her’n all,” Bofur nods, his smile wide and happy. “That’ll be quite challengin’, ‘m sure. She’s stupid like that.”

“Bofur,” Dori gently chastises the miner, his own secret smile agreeing with his friend’s assertion, if not the particular wording, and steps over to open the door. “Did you have an opportunity to address the little one’s ikhrêm ishmerafrân yet?”

“No, we were rather distracted by our increasingly desperate attempts to convince her of our sincerity,” Dwalin admits ironically, scratching his bald head. “Not that this great big lug of a King was a lot of help.”

“Oy!” Thorin complains jokingly, the easiness that settled on his heart when Bilbo agreed to wed them, to share their lives after all, allowing him to act freely again after everything that life has put him – them – through. “If I remember correctly, I was the one to ask for her hand.”

“Not that she’d have accepted without me there to help,” Dwalin snarks right back, playfully shoving his shoulder against the King’s on their way to breakfast.

The meal, shared by most of Rivendell – quite unlike their previous private little breakfasts, with only Elrond their occasional company as well as his daughter on rare occasions – is a joyous affair. The mood is light and infections and Thorin, surmising the reason for the valleywide delight, does not even balk at the sound of countless melodious voices and delicate songs.

A child was born, and their mother, well-beloved by most everyone present, is out of danger.

Elves, strange and distant creatures though they may be, celebrate the birth of a little one as deeply as any dwarrow. Both their people are, after all, gifted with children so very rarely.

It is only much later, when their feet are leading them down the by now well-known corridors, that nervous energy bubbles up in his veins and settles against his heart. It takes both his iron self-control and his ability to stand unmoved like a mountain to stay in control, in what he would have considered enemy territory no two years ago – and yet he could not care less whether the elves see him like this. The tiny, cool shape against his hip might as well be spurring him on just as much as the gurgling bundle in his arms, equally the source of his restlessness, and next to him Dwalin appears to be suffering of similar symptoms.

The prospect of finally, _finally_ seeing their beads in Bilbo’s honey curls-

“Good morning,” their hobbit chirps the moment they step into her sickroom, sitting up for the first time, “I was hoping you’d… well, be coming by.”

“Where else would we be?” Dwalin rumbles good-naturedly as his husband easily lays their daughter against her chest, and Bilbo gulps heavily.

Pulling a chair up to her sickbed Thorin reaches for her free hand, eyes sincere once more. “What? What is it, Bilbo?”

“I… you, you’re so… comfortable with her…”

“Of course we are. She’s our daughter,” Dwalin answers, so very naturally, and Thorin finds himself smiling fondly.

“You didn’t miss more than a few days,” he endeavours to reassure their Queen, presses a whiskery kiss against her knuckles. “A few more nights, and you’ll be wishing it was still Dwalin who had to take care of her in the middle of the night.”

The tall warrior yawns pointedly, and Bilbo’s eyes widen with curiosity.

“Just… just Dwalin?”

“Oh aye,” the Consort agrees, “Big fat lump of laziness here sleeps like a log. There’s no waking him when we’re together, you know.”

“Ah.” Her plump lips twitching Bilbo averts her gaze to rest on their daughter’s head instead, before raising it once more. “What… what about, did- … did you choose a name already?”

“Not without you,” Thorin hurries to assure her. “We thought on it, of course, but… we could not make any decisions without your approval.”

Blushing prettily, their hobbit ducks her head. Oh, she will relearn how to hold herself proudly – and if Thorin shall have to tell her every single day what she means to them, and how her courage and selflessness saved both them and their people, he will. Gladly.

“I… I don’t, I didn’t really expect to… have this child.” She gulps deeply, then, and both Thorin and Dwalin surge forward to wrap her up in frantic embraces, neither dwarrow strong enough to contemplate losing her again just so soon. (Ever-) No, the thought of her expecting certain death at the end of this specific adventure – is too much to dare think on.

Bilbo stiffens upon their sudden invasion into her personal space, the sudden _desperation_ in their every gesture, before slowly relaxing into the unyielding strength of their arms. “Also, I didn’t… I don’t know many dwarven names, do I?” Here she peeks up at them through a few errand strands of curly honey, fully melting against them after all. “I just… what would you call her?”

“Bís,” Dwalin does not hesitate to answer, voice a deep rumble of certainty, and Thorin gasps for air.

“Yes,” he breathes, “I thought- but no, yes, that’s _perfect_.”

“Bís,” Bilbo repeats, tasting the word on her clever tongue, and cocks her head, “for…?”

“You, of course, and Dís. A testament to both her hobbit and her dwarrow parentage,” Dwalin explains lowly, and that _smile_ clinging to his lips warms Thorin from head to toe.

“Dís – she’s your sister, yes?”

“The boys’ mother,” Thorin confirms, his own voice still throaty with emotion, both the name and his love for his husband almost choking him. “Bilbo… if you do not like it, you need only tell us. We can easily decide on another name. But I- … I like it a lot.”

“So do I,” Bilbo admits slowly, shyly, and reaches out to wrap the short fingers of her free hand into the tall warrior’s tunic. “It’s like Dwalin said – there’s some of all of us in there. A hobbit’s love for life… and a dwarf’s strength. And her royal blood, through her sister in name.”

Her royal blood.

Oh.

_Oh-_

“About…” Now Thorin is the one to gulp, sudden fear racing through his veins and quickening his pulse. “About that. Bilbo, her position-”

“Will hopefully be that of beloved daughter,” she interrupts him carefully but firmly, and the strength in her gaze – oh, how could she ever claim the little one’s strength comes from her dwarrow parents and not from herself? She is, after all, the strongest and most courageous of them all. Even in the face of her remaining uncertainty she does not hesitate to make her position on this matter clear, and he knows that whatever she asks for, in this instance… it will be granted. After all, it is obvious how deeply she cares about the matter. “Perhaps even of adored princess… But – never heiress to the crown. Never. I just… That’s Fíli’s life, Fíli’s claim and Fíli’s right. And also, I’m not sure… I’m not sure I could- … see her with-”

“The raven crown has long since been smelt down,” Thorin lowly, sadly informs her as he understands, _understands_ , her plight, “forging a new one was my very first act the moment I was hale enough to be allowed. And the Arkenstone was shattered to a thousand pieces and scattered across the kingdom, to be kept by those who stumble upon them. They do no longer carry any worth.” The thought alone, of the glowing stone and what emotions it kindled in his heart, its joining with the dragon’s curse… is enough to make him feel nauseous. His easy giving in to its lure, and his treatment of his little hobbit – that guilt he will have to carry for the remainder of his days, he knows, and it is more than just punishment for what he did. “You will never have to look upon any of us with either item in our lives again.”

“Good,” Bilbo says, gulping heavily but with relief softening the line of her chin. “Good.”

“Revered peacekeeper, then,” Dwalin effortlessly continues her former list of possible roles for their daughter in a near desperate attempt to dispel the heavy mood, lightening both Thorin’s heart and Bilbo’s smile. “Trusted advisor, maybe, and uncompromising diplomat. Mayhap even heeded councillor – she’ll be giving Balin a run for his gold. But never, ever, heir. That, we promise.”

“Revered peacekeeper and trusted advisor,” she echoes, and the gentle smile on her tempting lips widens. “I like that. After all, someone shall have to keep up good relations with the elves in the future.”

“I imagine that will be her doing, aye,” Thorin agrees easily, exchanging a short glance with his husband. This appears to be a good time for bringing up their future plans. “Bilbo – there is something else we need to discuss with you.”

“About the little one,” Dwalin adds, avoiding direct use of her name for now. After all, while it might have been chosen _for_ her it was not yet given _to_ her. Gifting her with it shall be Elrond’s privilege, and neither of them would dare reclaim that right. “Or rather, her name.”

“Yes?” Bilbo questions, surprise and insecurity both etched into her gentle features, and he gulps drily. “I thought…”

“We chose one, aye,” the tall warrior acknowledges, before sliding off her sickbed to stand next to it instead, now able to properly look at her. Thorin, in turn, takes up position on her other side, clasping her fragile fingers in his once more. “We were hoping, Bilbo,” he explains sincerely, “that you might allow us naming her in the traditional dwarven way. It would serve two purposes: For one, it would… well, while we certainly intend for her to grow up knowing her hobbit roots, a child’s ikhrêm ishmerafrân is amongst the most important events in all their life. Allowing us to follow our people’s traditions in this would mean a lot of us.”

Bilbo is nodding already, the insecurity draining from her features, but Thorin reaches out a blunt finger to lay against her lips.

“The second purpose,” he continues, bright eyes pleading for her to listen and understand, _understand_ what she means to them, “is one entirely different. We… Bilbo, in the days we spent here since our arrival… we could not help but realize not only how much these elves did for you, but also – also how much you clearly mean to them, and how much they must mean to you. Arwen even claimed you to be her sister in all but blood, and that kind of bond… is one we could not knowingly compromise. All of us lost close family members in those terrible years since the worm came to take out home, and we could not… we already took one home, one family from you” – for that he understood, from a soft but no less acid remark the elf Lord’s daughter dropped a few days ago, about hobbits’ thoughts on both adventures and bastard children – “and I shall be drawn and quartered before I put you through that same pain again. We-”

“Oh Thorin,” she breathes, interrupting him, and it is only now that he realizes she is crying. “It was through no fault of your own-”

“It was through our _every_ fault, Bilbo,” Dwalin breaks in on her in turn, voice harsh but eyes so very sad and gentle, “and from now on, we shall do right by you. Elrond… we asked him, to take an important part in the ikhrêm ishmerafrân. Traditionally, that position is taken by a close family member, and-”

“But he’s an elf,” she is once more the one to interrupt, her eyes wide. “And outsider! I- … _I’m_ an outsider!”

“And our One,” Thorin reminds her, imploringly. “The future Queen of Erebor. Bilbo – you more than earned the spilling of every single secret we can divulge to you. You are an honorary dwarrow, both for your strength and endurance, and for every deed you did to aid Durin’s folk when no one else would have raised a finger. You _deserve_ this. And if- … if your home in the Shire was lost, by our fault, then we shall be the ones to offer you a new home. One that will accept you with everything you are.”

“I- … I- alright,” she relents, voice thick with emotions and eyes heavy with tears. “Al-alright. I’ll give my everything… to be worthy of what you’re offering.”

“Oh, Bilbo,” Dwalin sighs and gently rests his forehead against hers. “It’s us who need to prove our worth, not you. Never you.”

“But-”

“Perhaps you should agree on disagreeing in this matter,” Arwen’s soft amusement floats through the room, startling all three crowded around the bed.

Thorin, unable to help himself, whips around and drops into a defensive stance at being surprised thusly, the knowledge that he needs to protect their hobbit against all and every kinds of dangers burning in his muscles. Behind him, he knows, Dwalin will be mimicking his movements-

“Our apologies,” he begs her pardon once he realizes who has so unexpectedly intruded upon their privacy, relaxing, “we did not expect company.” An elf though she may be (the realisation of which, to be honest, made up half of the severity of his reaction), but she is also a member of Bilbo’s family, and he will _not_ disappoint his beloved again.

“That much I gathered,” Arwen replies smoothly, the corners of her lips twitching. “I do apologize for startling you thusly.”

Inclining his head in acceptance Thorin moves to the other side of the bed, to stand with his husband, when the elf Lady draws a chair over to sit beside her claimed sister, and reaches out to grasp the so much smaller fingers for herself.

“Bilbo,” she begins gently, “I understand that always seeking fault in yourself instead of others is part of who you are, but you need to stop punishing yourself for deeds that were all of your doing. Because if you don’t – if you do not forgive yourself, then how can you expect them to forgive you? And how will you demand their absolution of their own offences?”

Thorin’s eyes are wide. Certainly, the elf’s counselling and help is unexpected, even after the long discussion the night after their daughter was born, and still – that surprise hits him far less than the impact of her words. Because… they are so painfully true he does not know how to breathe for a moment. And, oh, he would praise her clever questions, if truly they are able to convince Bilbo of her right for forgiveness, if only… if only there were not just as true for him.

Because, how can he ever expect Bilbo to forgive herself if he is unable to ask the same of his own conscience?

And yet – what he did _was_ unforgivable. Threatening his One, banishing her into an impending battle with full knowledge of her non-existent fighting abilities… how could that ever be compared to acquiring a bargaining chip in a desperate attempt to stop said battle? To save lives? An inanimate object, even, no matter its importance; when he was ready to sacrifice her _life_ -

“Perhaps, King Thorin, it is time for you, too, to seek fault in an ailment you had no control over, instead of holding your own heart accountable.”

Elrond’s words are as gentle and true as they are insistent, and Thorin recoils as though struck by an invisible blow-

“He’s right, you know,” Óin agrees grudgingly, shouldering past both King and Consort to make his way over to Bilbo. “We’ve been telling you so ever since the battle, but no, you’re too gloomy and broody and guilty to accept our words. Well, maybe you’ll listen to the elf!”

“We were all gloomy ‘n everything,” Bofur adds cheerfully, weaving around an amused Arwen as their healer carefully pulls Bilbo into his embrace. “Understandable, after wha’ ‘appened, but Óin’s right – ye got her back, it’s high time ye let go of that gloominess!”

“Bofur!” Bilbo exclaims, still clinging to Óin, and the pure delight in her voice is unmistakable.

“She was far less excited to see us,” Dwalin grumbles sourly, elbowing his husband.

Thorin snorts irritably, diving forward to rescue their daughter from Bofur’s zealous hug of Bilbo, and shrinks a few feet away from the bed. Next to him Dwalin is glowering, and still – Thorin can tell his beloved, just like himself, is not truly as bitter about the scene before them as he pretends. No, they are not angry or furious… simply pensive, the elves’ and Óin’s word heavy on their minds.

After all, they are true.

And yet, having been spoken aloud, no less unthinkable than before. Before-

“Bilbo!” This time the squeal of delight falls from Kíli’s lips, and as he and Bifur fight over the right to first embrace their beloved hobbit, pandemonium ensures.

It is only later – much, much later – that Thorin sits resting against Dwalin’s shins, his head on the younger one’s knees. “Another moon, mayhap two,” he echoes the elf Lord’s estimate, eyes falling closed in bliss when his husband’s strong fingers card through his dark hair. “Enough time to arrange travelling with a new-born, but soon enough that Fíli and Balin should not encounter too many problems.”

Dwalin hums in wordless agreement, affectionately tugging at one of the King’s braids boldly declaring his status to any who were taught how to read that language. “We should hold the ikhrêm ishmerafrân a few days before our departure,” he then gruffly suggests. “Gives us time enough to prepare, and them time enough to say goodbye.”

“I do suspect we might gain an entourage for our return journey,” he answers lazily, thoughts straying to their reception at Erebor. The King and Consort coming home, not only bringing back their future Queen but also a princess. A _princess_ -

“Don’t think he’ll trust us to keep his brand new akhrâm nâtha safe?” the warrior snorts, amusement clinging roughly to his deep voice. “I imagine you’re right – and I do have a worrisome hunch who we’ll be stuck with.”

“Hm?” Raising his voice towards the end of his pleased hum at clever fingers scratching oh-so-pleasantly at the base of his skull Thorin wordlessly inquires, going limp.

Dwalin chuckles softly. “Falling asleep, are you? Lazy bugger – well, I know how to wake you up just fine. Remember those rascal sons of his we only got to meet today?”

“You think? No-”

The King’s eyes fly open in shock at the mental image of Elladan and Elrohir meeting not only Kíli, but also Fíli. _Together_.

“Mahal give us strength,” he moans at the notion, and a few armchairs over Óin cackles.

“Strength indeed,” he mutters, “and steady nerves.”

“At least we’ve already got an excellent healer at hand,” Dori remarks from the other side of their parlour, eyes closed but none the less most certainly well aware of Óin’s pleased grin, and Thorin finds himself smiling treacherously softly. The many years of loss taught him to jealously guard what family remained to him and protect it with his very life, and now… now his family is bigger than ever, and he will do everything in his power to keep it whole and hale and _happy_.

Because, what would he be without his Company? Without Dís, and the boys? Without Dwalin? Without Bilbo?

Once, he believed to have nothing left to lose – and it is only now that he realizes so much more could have been lost, so much more that he could not have lived without-

“Thinking grim thoughts again?”

“A few,” Thorin admits, that smile returning to his lips as he tilts his head back to look at the One who was always there, to share in every single one of his trials. “But for all that they’re grim, they’re still worryingly sappy.”

“Sappy? It’s high time you get some sleep then,” Dwalin snorts in amusement, hauling the both of them up and towards the bedroom, and the King grins tiredly.

“I think,” he says lowly, toeing off his boots, “it’s only just now that I find myself able to truly relax. With our beads in her hair, plans for the ikhrêm ishmerafrân and a tentative date for our departure… I’m finally able to believe that it will truly work out. That we’ll finally, finally have that chance at true happiness.”

“Oh aye, sappy thoughts indeed,” Dwalin grunts, but if he pulls Thorin into a hard, grounding embrace, if he gulps deeply caught by similar sentiments – well, then the door is closed already and their daughter still too young to tell on her fathers.

Morning comes way too soon, and so does the following evening. The days begin to melt away and flow together, for every hour he spends at Bilbo’s side a day almost trickling through his fingers. There is _peace_ here, and careful trust between the three of them, and hope glowing on the horizon red and golden every morning. Somehow, time begins to lose meaning in the delicate beauties of Rivendell, and for a growing number of weeks Thorin finds himself well occupied between spending cherished time with Bilbo and Dwalin, caring for their beloved little one, planning for the departure slowly but surely drawing closer, etching out both rough and finer details of their future contact with the elves of Imladris and, somehow, finding himself involved in an ever-continuing teasing (teasing! Mahal help them all-) contest with Elrond. Kíli, for all that he appears well and truly tempted to run off with the noble twins and descend into mischief whenever any kind of opportunity arises, stands ready at every turn to assist with preparing their journey home.

 _Home_.

And it will truly be home now, with all his family there.

“I’m proud of you,” he tells his sister-son late one evening, standing together out on the balcony and watching the stars illuminate the descended darkness, “of you and your brother. You’ve come so far… I could have no finer heirs, no finer sons.”

Kíli’s young face is split by a grin so bright and happy it outshines every single one of those stars.

“I’m so glad we have Bilbo back,” he says, trustingly resting his dark head against Thorin’s shoulder. “We’d all lost hope, I fear, that you’d never be happy again. Seeing you and Dwalin with her – oh, we missed her, all of us, but you… you, she put back together. And I’ll never be able to thank her for her gentle forgiveness. For returning my Uncle and King to me.”

Oh yes, he has long since learned that any happiness can go up in smoke at the blink of an eye and one breath of a dragon, and that there might not be another chance to tell someone what they mean to you.

He should have known that Kíli, too, learned that lesson.

“I can’t wait for Fíli to meet our little cousin. He’ll adore her just as much as I do.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Thorin laughs lowly, so disgustingly, beautifully at peace, “She’s Bilbo’s daughter after all.”

Bilbo’s daughter, his and Dwalin’s daughter, and unquestionably the most beautiful baby girl in all of Middle-Earth. Seeing her wrapped up in the shimmering ceremonial garb Dori painstakingly embroidered and prepared one memorable night, the full moon shining down on her, only confirms his every conviction in that matter.

Elrond has chosen a secluded pavilion for this occasion, and while Thorin may not care much for the blooming flowers winding across the delicate structure he does appreciate the skilful metalwork, and he knows that their hobbit will cherish the greenery all the more. There is a sensation of home to be found by everyone present here, and he cannot help but agree with the elf’s choice. Arwen, Dori, Bofur, Bifur and Óin are standing around them in a silent, protective circle when Dwalin hands over the child to her ukhram, stepping back to take his place on Bilbo’s other side. Kíli, in turn, eagerly moves forward to stand in front of Elrond.

“I come to petition,” the elf says, the ancient words stilted and unfamiliar but no less magical on his lips, spoken in Westron for the first time in millennia.

“What is it you require?” Kíli asks, proudly standing as the youngest present family member of the child.

(Thorin remembers, still, the tiny blond dwarfling asking those very same answers of Dwalin with the help of his mother at the ikhrêm ishmerafrân of his new-born brother, who is now the one to stand here. The times had been different, then, the ceremony much less grand and splendid in those hard, lean years, but a beautiful moment none the less.)

“I have come to gift this child with name.”

“Will you then be the one to help carry the burden of this name?”

“Until she may carry it herself and beyond,” Elrond vows gravely, their small child looking even smaller in his large hands.

Kíli observes him for a moment, judging every single movement and gesture, before nodding. “You may gift her with name, to always share her burden and life.”

The elf lord inclines his head in gratitude before reaching out to take a wreath of flowers from his daughter’s hands. For a moment, Thorin is incensed, about the traditional enduring gems or precious metal to have been exchanged with wilting greenery, before gulping. Bilbo. This is Bilbo’s daughter, and she is hobbit as much as dwarrow. In this dwarven ceremony Elrond could not have chosen a finer acknowledgement of her heritage.

“The world shall know you as princess Bís, daughter of Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain.”

For a moment there is silence.

Then Bofur is the first of their Companions to break into cheers, followed by all others.

The Princess of Erebor was gifted with name – a memorable occasion indeed.

“And here I truly expected an invitation,” a deep voice claims from behind them, and Bilbo whips around even faster than King and Consort.

“Gandalf!” she exclaims, throwing herself across the pavilion and into his arms, and Thorin sighs. He may not be the grey wizard’s greatest devotee, but it is obvious that Bilbo cares deeply for him. Another expected visitor to be, then-

But, anything for his family.

Anything, even another journey across Middle-Earth, and through all those countless dangers lurking.

In the end, though, he knows it will be more than worth it. After all, Bilbo is coming _home_ with them. And, finally, he truly knows where his path ought to lead him after all these years of wandering.

**Author's Note:**

> I never planned on stopping at this point, but this story ran away from me from the beginning, and, well. I'm really happy with this ending, so I hope you are, too.


End file.
